There’s no free lunch in a crit
There’s no free lunch in a crit
Mike had been on my wheel for a couple of laps but would never come around, never take his turn in the wind. And the only reason I knew his name was that each time we came past the oyster bar at the start/finish line people yelled “That’s it Mike! Just stay on his wheel!” Every. Time.
I had noticed that while I pedaled through the turns, he coasted momentarily. Turn 1 was tight and tricky. The manhole covers were circled in orange paint; the long pothole on the inside curb was outlined; the reflector was highlighted. It had so many lines it looked like a topographical map. I lifted the tempo in the middle of the turn and drilled it coming out. Mike got gapped and some others came with me. He should have known there’s no free ride; after all, he was in his 60s.